


Elsinore Resort and Spa

by orphan_account



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: A fair bit of gallows humor, Affectionate Parody, Author prone to long tangents, Local Antic disposition consists of vine references and surreal memes, M/M, Slight Canon Divergence, corrupt hotel management, don’t worry the pirates are there too, everyone wears hawaii shirts, hotel elsinore, increasingly ridiculous nicknames for R&G, never thought i’d be writing shakespeare fanfic one day, resort au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There’s something rotten in the tropical island paradise that is Elsinore Resort & Spa...





	1. Chapter 1

It was a perfectly clear, starry night, slightly cooler than it had been during the day, and one would be tempted to describe this particular night as peaceful, and one would, in this description, be especially wrong. While the drunkest tourists in the tiki bar were slowly but surely coming to their last coconut-flavoured beverage, the guards at the hotel gate weren’t quite so calm anymore. They just couldn’t put their finger on it, but a particular thing seemed to be off...

It wasn’t just cooler than it had been during the day, it was, in fact starting to get downright chilly. It may have been the season wherein our saviour’s birth is celebrated, but they were, after all, still on a tropical island. Chilly wasn’t natural or comfortable and most importantly not very good for business, after all those drunk, sunburned tourists were here to escape the chill of December in their homecountries. They wanted Christmas on the beach, of course! 

But it wasn’t just the chill. There was some noise that very much did nit sound like the usual nocturnal calls that are inherent to such a location and make one ask what in God’s name those animals in the rainforest may be doing and if they need a good old-fashioned exorcism. Although, the exorcism part may have been accurate...

The first guard, by the name of Bernardo, turned to see his companion who was standing at the other end of the spacious hotel gate. 

“You hear that?”

“What? It’s just a monkey”

“No...Way different.”

“Um...What’s it then”

“Dunno...but it sound off somehow. Otherworldly.”

“Have you been watching too much Buzzfeed unsolved again? Calm down man. I don’t think we’ll be seeing any ghosts tonight.”

“I was just saying. And I’m not scared obviously. Just sensitive to my surroundings, as a good guardsman should be.” He gave the Second guard a smug look. 

“I can see right through you...You’ve got your panties in a twist! What did you think it was? The ghost of the late Hotel manager?”

“Don’t be disrespectful now. He hasn’t been gone for so long. But now that you mention it it is kind of strange that the hand-over of the business went so seamlessly. I’m sure the guests haven’t even noticed.” 

“Dunno...the Senior must’ve written all that in his testa-“ 

Here he got startled by a second noise of the same fashion, this time immediately behind him, inside the hotel gates. At least he had proof that his colleague wasn’t hallucinating, but that came at a cost.

The two guards returned themselves and almost had a collective heart attack. There, standing in front of them, was the late resort manager and owner, Hamlet Senior. He wasn’t looking as fresh as you’d expect from a millionaire who makes a living running hotels in the sunny south. He was looking exactly fresh enough for someone who had died a month ago.

His form was entirely non-corporeal, a sort of greenish haze that one might see after having one too many of the strong drinks with the funny straws while also suffering from mild heatstroke.  
The ghost was wearing a hawaii shirt with some sort of bloody stains on it where he had evidently coughed up the stuff. His eyes were obscured by sunglasses, but Bernardo was somehow entirely sure that there was nothing but empty, gaping sockets behind them.  
Definitely not a peaceful night that one was...


	2. Ghost college graduate

The phantom hovered vaguely in front of them, glaring but staying creepily silent the whole time.  
Surely this wasn’t real? The frightened guard took a step backward anyway, just in case.

“This seems strange, rotten, unholy...”

“Very observant of you.”, the other whispered, without taking his eyes off the ghost lest it may use his momentary inattentiveness to its benefit. No one had bothered to tell him that in this regard, ghosts are very different from, say, Weeping Angels. They don’t usually harm you if you blink. 

“We should really get Horatio. I hear he’s quite experienced with stuff like that.”

“What?”

“He knows his way around the occult, I hear. Quite studied in his field. ”

“That’s what he did at uni?”

“Now’s not the time! He- he seems to be going away?”

“Just like that?”

They could make out a faint streak of light on the horizon, the sun was rising! The second bit of ghost trivia that the guards knew of was, this time around, correct. Ghosts did not particularly enjoy the broad daylight. (Perhaps it is because applying sunscreen to a non-corporeal form is quite difficult.) 

“It’s over now. But I think he wanted to say something.”

“How do you know?”

“I kind of sensed it? Some of that whole ‘unfinished business’ pizzazz I assume.”

“Oh great. Just what we needed. An hotel ghost! They could’ve stopped at cockroaches and ants but now there’s a goddamn ghost!”

“Uhm...I don’t think that’s quite-“

“If there’s really any unfinished business, he will surely return. Like, tonight again! And then we get Horatio to talk to him and maybe do an exorcism or something.”

“I’m- I’m certain he’ll be okay with that...My shift’s over now anyways. I will ask him.”

He found Horatio sat at the buffet restaurant, still a bit sleepy, and sitting next to Hamlet, who looked miserable as ever, perhaps justified seeing as his father had just kicked the bucket. Horatio was evidently quite worried about his friend, who didn’t seem to be interested in anything but his morning coffee (He took it without milk- ‘black like his soul’ - but always added four sugars because he was pigeon liver’d and lacked gall). 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything? I know you’re down but starving won’t make the situation any better”

Hamlet, who was wearing sunglasses even though they sat inside, continued staring into his coffee. “Not hungry. Besides, hungover...”, he let out a pained sigh. “I wish I were dead.” 

Horatio patted him on the back. “You always do. You always do Ham.” 

“Nngk.”, the eloquent young man answered. 

Bernardo came to their table and asked if he could sit with them. Evidently, the old Resort owner’s son wasn’t in a chatty mood that morning. Some people may be good at hiding the fact that they’re about to throw up. Hamlet was not one of them.  
Just as Horatio was finishing up his scrambled eggs, Hamlet stood up (or tried to). A second try proved successful. 

“I’m going back to bed. Bury me in a ditch on the beach if I don’t wake up.” And with those words, he left, walking like someone who figured out how legs worked only a day or two ago.

“Horatio...maybe it’s good that he left, because I have...a matter. And I didn’t want to discuss it in front of him because well...I don’t want to remind him of...you know.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, you’re experienced in the occult, aren’t you?”

“That in the park at Uni, that was a ONE TIME THING ok? Besides, we were both drunk and - “

“That’s not- I didn’t know about that until you told me just now. And I won’t ask for any more details.” 

Horatio’s usually pasty, but now sunburned face lit up in an even brighter shade of red. “Nothing special. But I am somewhat of a hobby paranormal investigator.”

“There you are. Well, I’ll tell you what it’s all about then, but-“

“What?”

“You might want to sit down for that one.”


	3. Would’st thou like a strawberry yoghurt bar, o unfortunate soul?

“Now we wait.” 

The sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon now and Horatio had made himself comfortable on the rickety plastic chair he had brought. Beside him he had his beach bag, filled with some indispensable goods: A crucifix and some holy water (In case the ghost was some malicious demon and he had to do an exorcism), some sort of odd machine with a needle on it that didn’t do much beside quietly beep from time to time, his old Latin textbook (He would surely find a section on what to say while exorcising, and if not, he bet the ghost wouldn’t turn down some fine Latin poems, although maybe not the saucy ones), a pink toy ouija board he had found in a shady souvenir shop, and a granola bar (in case the unfortunate soul demanded a sacrifice, or in case he got peckish, whichever would arrive first). 

While he waited for the ghostly hour to come around, he couldn’t help but remark that he, in fact, had not the slightest idea of what he was actually supposed to be doing. Sure, he had performed some...intricate rituals in the Wittenberg uni occult club (Hamlet and him had decided to join it for shits and giggles and because they really wanted to know why in the Lord’s name a uni even had such a thing as an ‘occult club’), but he had never seen a real, actual spirit. 

“Maybe, just maybe, the guards were wrong.”, he pondered. Maybe it wasn’t a ghost after all. Possibly it was just a particularly confused hotel guest who had forgot that one had to remove the seaweed peeling before leaving the spa. Or a collective hallucination? But, somehow, he wanted the thing to be real. And he wanted to prove that he was the only competent and reliable person he knew. He wanted everyone to see that. But if he did get rid of the ghost, would he tell Hamlet? Maybe it was better if he didn’t think about his father anymore, because it really seemed to have changed him. On the other side, if he told his friend of the great service...

He was snapped out of his trance by Francisco, the other guard that was with him. He realized that he had been daydreaming. Or rather night-dreaming?* Half past eleven o’clock- dreaming? It didn’t matter.

“Do you think he’ll show up again?”

“Why wouldn’t he? It seems like he has something to express, doesn’t it?”

“I hope he’ll at least, like, leave if you talk to him.  
Makes me awfully uncomfortable really...”

“I think that’s quite a normal rea-“

An awful shiver crept down Horatio’s spine. He didn’t have to pretend that he could feel that particular ghostly presence. It was for real this time. He tried quietly to not freak out and keep his cool. Everyone thought of him as a level headed guy after all...

“He’s coming.”

Suddenly, the fiend manifested himself in front of him. And, as far as he could tell, it had a frightening resemblance to Hamlet Sr. He had only seen the man in photos so far, never in person. It dawned on him that he had no idea what to say. (It was that awkward feeling you get when meeting your friends’ parents for the first time, only this time from beyond the grave). He tried to not choke on the words in his throat, instead forced himself to relax, and let them push their way out slowly. 

As quietly and softly as he could, he asked the ghost:  
“Hello sir! Uuuh, I don’t mean to be impolite, at all, but you...well...( he gestured vaguely towards the greenish floating ‘body’ in front of him) seem to have, er, left the world of the living behind.”

“...”

“What was that?”, whispered Bernardo. “Don’t you have to talk to it all fancily? With ‘thou’s’ and ‘thines’ and ‘-eth’s’?”

“I’m fairly certain he only died a few weeks ago and didn’t get his bloody head chopped by Elizabeth the first. It think I can talk normally.”

He turned back towards the ghost and gave it a slightly awkward smile and a shoulder shrug. 

“I could ‘thou’ you though? If you wanted, of course, mister Hamlet’s dad.”

“...”, answered the ghost, visibly annoyed. 

“So, my man, good sir, (the ghost spectacularly facepalmed), can you, like, speak? Can you tell us why you’re here?”

Still silence. 

Horatio took the ouija board from his bag and presented it to the ghost, who looked extremely dead inside (justified) and as if he were saying something along the lines of ‘Isn’t it obvious you dumbasses?’ (rude). 

The ghost finally snapped as Horatio was unboxing the ouija board. He dematerialized before their eyes. 

“Good bloody job!”

“Well, what am I supposed to do!? He won’t speak to me either!”

“You better think something up then, scholar!”

“Wait.” It dawned on Horatio that maybe, maybe the ghost just wanted to see his son, his only son for the last time (He sometimes had sudden revelations like that). 

“He may talk to Hamlet and to him only. I’m quite sure he’ll hang around here again tomorrow night, and we may show him his son and then they’ll have a chat and a big goodbye that they didn’t get when he died of a sudden heart attack on that pool floatie.” 

“So what you’re saying is he only comes here to see his son?”

“Exactly right.” 

“Well, that’s as good as any plan. But you have to convince Hamlet to come here, Horatio.”

“Don’t worry about that. I know how to convince him, and I’ll try to tell him that one as little traumatisingly as I can.”

*Here, the author almost made a ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ pun, but then he remembered that the first act takes place in the smack middle of the winter. A little disappointed that he could not send the scourge of his awful sense of humour on the world once more, he continued writing, instead of studying for a terrifically important Mathematics test. The author is a bad example and you shouldn’t imitate him.


	4. A nice hot shower and an anguished monologue

“Why do we need to decorate the stupid Christmas tree anyway? Don’t you have employees for that kind of stuff?”

“I thought we’d spend some quality family time together. Y’know, it’s important for you to bond with me, now that your dad isn’t there anymore.”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do! I love family time.”, Hamlet said sarcastically. 

Despite fervent protests from that side, Claudius had called a family meeting and decided to take the task of decorating the tree off the shoulders of his employees. All the important resort people were gathered and, more or less, hanging little surfboard and flower ornaments on the tree in the lobby. Hamlet had questioned where the hell his uncle had got a tree like that on an island in the tropics, but he had abandoned the thought because he felt like he didn’t care in the slightest about it. 

He could feel himself losing his sanity more and mote with every second he had to listen to the gut-wrenchingly cheesy ukulele covers of popular Christmas songs, occasionally interjected by Laertes bragging about his workout routine or Polonius, his uncle’s left-hand man, very obviously licking Claudius’ boots and gracing him with his much needed and oh-so-wise advice. And, as if that had not already sparked the festive spirit inside him enough, there was also about 38 C° of scorching, moist heat hitting him over the head like a particularly sweaty pillow slowly smothering him to death. Ophelia had convinced him to wear a headband with antlers and little bells. It went very well with his bedhead and the XL body bags under his brown eyes. 

Claudius took a particularly kitschy ornament that was presumably supposed to be Santa in ugly bathing shorts and sunglasses and put it up on a free spot on the tree.  
“I suppose you all want to know what Gertie and I have been up to?”

“I don’t want to know, actually.”

His mother Gertrude, (or as Claudius had always called her, Gertie) took a long sip of her iced eggnog and shot his uncle a disturbingly flirty smile before flashing her right hand in the air to reveal, in an unexpectedly even more disturbing turn of events, a ring...

“Surprise!” Claudius gently nudged Hamlet in the side with his elbow and ruffled his hair (much to Hamlet’s despair- he did not like most people touching it at all), “We got married!”

Hamlet was upset, to put it mildly. Did these two not have any shame whatsoever? Couldn’t they have waited at least a little while longer as not to utterly desecrate his father’s memory? Was it even legal to marry your dead husband’s brother? Most importantly: Was he his own step-cousin now?  
He did not want to see his mother with this man, that he knew. Something about Claudius’ perfect brown locks that, at age fifty, still only showed a hint of grey, and his supernaturally white teeth just threw him off. Perhaps he had no business thinking like that, but his mother had a very bad taste in men. 

The adjacent resort employees, as well as Polonius, Laertes, and Ophelia, expressed their best wishes and blessings for the marriage. He joined in begrudgingly. 

“So I suppose I’m your new dad now!”, Claudius laughed, showing off his teeth and thus looking like one of those disgustingly wholesome people in toothpaste ads that seem to only live on mouthwash and the occasional thoroughly crunchy green apple. 

Hamlet laughed nervously, trying to contain his rage. It didn’t happen too often, but his unadulterated temper had evidently won over his repressed, snarky sarcasm, just this once. “You’re not my dad and as far as I’m concerned you can go fuck yourself.”

Claudius looked hilariously offended. “What?”

“Nothing, my lord. I was just expressing my best wishes and blessing this beautiful union of yours.”, he answered, through gritted teeth.

“Thank you very much, boy.” Here Claudius gave him a second, decidedly harder nudge that dislocated his shoulder. “I can’t believe we get to spend our honeymoon here. We should all be grateful for living in paradise.”

Claudius went up to Gertie and kissed her, making a point of doing it as suavely and indiscreetly as he possibly could. 

Polonius suddenly opened his mouth, which was always a sign that you were about to have a marvelously uninteresting time. “Well, hehe, best wishes to my dear friend! And, as the trend today seems to be big news, my son also has something to tell you all...Larry?”

Laertes, who had been in the process of showing off that he could place a star on the very top of the tree without even tiptoeing, in the process ‘coincidentally’ showing off his rock-hard abs to the entire family, now stood solemnly on his skinny legs. Hamlet often heard him talk about being ‘one hundred percent natty’, ‘benching 200 kilos’, ‘eating completely clean and focused on gains’ and lastly ‘squatting four plates on each side’. While the ‘natty’ part seemed dubious but not unbelievable, he could absolutely not bring himself to believe that this man regularly did his leg day. Sure, Larry’s legs were...toned, but they were decidedly not as buff as the rest of him. 

“I’m going to go back to France. I had a great time here, everyone, but I must confess that I miss it up there. Of course I miss my home gym too, hahaha. You could say that I am returning to a long-time lover. No homo though. And I’ll think of you all, I promise!” 

Hamlet was fairly indifferent about it. Laertes was maybe an annoying jock who bragged too much, but relatively likable compared to Polonius or some of the others. At least he would never have to suffer through another personal training lesson or pool fitness class ever again...

He did not care if exercise was ‘good against his depression’ or would ‘make him feel happier and more confident’, there was nothing worse than having Larry shout at you to ‘remember to breathe while doing your crunches’. (He was, at the beginning, not sure how one could just forget to breathe, but when he tried to do the crunches, he was not sure how he was actually supposed to do it either) 

Pool fitness was not his cup of tea either. Laertes had persuaded him to take one (1) class, of course taught by Larry himself. He had proceeded do some goofy-looking gymnastics exercises in front of the pool, filled exclusively with old ladies (including three in front of him who for some reason wore black cloaks in the water and seemed to be on a vacation under sisters; they kept talking about a certain Thane of Cawdor while shaking the pool noodles energetically over their heads). About halfway through the lesson, Hamlet had needed a break, as evidenced by his gasping for air and legs giving out. He had felt the judgement of the old ladies in the pool. The smugness from being fitter than someone way younger than them. He was, at the end of it, no less depressed than he had been before, but he now had a sore back and a sunburn. Never again. 

The tree was now fully decorated and radiated festive energy, if by any chance surfboards and half-naked old men with sunglasses were your idea of festivity. Everyone was now free to go about their way again. All Hamlet wanted was to take a shower and brood over his feelings (and maybe write an angsty poem of two), but as he turned to leave he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned back around. It was his mother and uncle.  
His mother has evidently gone a bit hard on the iced eggnog (something, he imagined, he would do too if he were married to Claudius)and they both looked concerned. 

“We want you to feel welcome here.”, said Claudius. 

“Of course I’m bloody welcome here, it’s my dad’s resort.”

His mum looked genuinely sorrowful. “Honey, we know you’re sad about it.”, she slurred a bit, “It’s been a while now...Don’t you think it’s time to move on? Of course we all loved your father deeply, but, it’s- it’s been long enough.”

“Listen to your mother, Hamlet.”

He did not want to hear them, how they took his beloved father’s memory and soiled it with...whatever that between them was. He felt like he was about to either snap at them or start crying, and did not want either of those to happen. So he turned around a second time and left for his room. 

He felt relieved to enter the dark suite with a freshly made bed and the air conditioning turned up to eleven. Promptly he took off his sweaty clothes, threw them in the corner, and stepped into the shower, pondering like particularly conflicted people in particularly dramatic (and fanservice-y) movie scenes tended to do. 

One bit you need to know is that he had a tendency to talk to himself when alone and distressed. And he did so very, anachronistically eloquently even:

“Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, or that the Everlasting had not fix’d his canon ‘gainst self-slaughter...”

He turned his face upwards so the water landed directly on it. He imagined it were some sort of acid that would instantly turn him into a pile of goo. He hated being sentient sometimes. Sometimes, all he wanted was to be a blubbering, mushy pile of goo.

“O God, God!...  
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable  
Seem to me all the uses of this world!  
Fie on ’t, ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden  
That grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature  
Possess it merely. That it should come to this.  
But two months dead—nay, not so much, not two.  
So excellent a king, that was to this  
Hyperion to a satyr.”  
When he was little, he had actually used to imagine that the resort was some sort of kingdom, and his father was the king, and he himself the prince. It was a natural conclusion to come to after all, for a child with an overactive imagination...

“So loving to my mother that he might not beteem the winds of heaven  
Visit her face too roughly.—Heaven and earth,  
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him  
As if increase of appetite had grown  
By what it fed on, and yet, within a month—“

He gestured dramatically here, throwing the foamy shampoo left on his hands at the shower glass in the process. 

“Let me not think on ’t. Frailty, thy name is woman!—“ 

Here, most people would have reminded him that it was maybe time to loosen up a little and take a sip of ‘respecting women’ juice, but when he was monologuing like that he seemed to be possessed by the spirit of a seventeenth century man and thus did not always consider political correctness.

“A little month, or ere those shoes were old  
With which she followed my poor father’s body,  
Like Niobe, all tears. Why she, even she—  
O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason  
Would have mourned longer!—“

Patience was a virtue, but one that Horatio did not consider when he rushed to Suite 2B with his key card (don’t ask why he had one) and opened the door.

“married with my uncle,  
My father’s brother, but no more like my father  
Than I to Hercules.” He looked at himself in the uncomfortably large mirror that had to be exactly opposite the entirely transparent shower cabin for some reason and beheld all of his pale, skinny-fat glory. “Within a month,  
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears  
Had left the flushing in her gallèd eyes,  
She married. O most wicked speed, to post  
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!  
It is not nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart! For I must hold my- AAAAH! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN HERE!?”

Horatio had, without much consideration, come into the bathroom, not expecting his friend to be naked of course. He was a bit flustered but a thousandfold more hectic. He needed to tell him about the ghost and he really needed to get him outside to talk to it and he really needed to STOP LOOKING- 

Hamlet had nearly had a heart attack when Horatio had entered. Flustered, cheeks flashing red, he had nearly slipped in the shower and broken his neck (Nevermind, that didn’t seem so bad actually...). He had desperately grabbed a nearby towel for modesty and somehow managed to wrap it around his waist not quite in time, because Horatio was staring. He tried to cover it up but it was very, er, obvious and he was not drunk enough to be comfortable with that kind of stuff right now. 

“What’s the matter then? What is so urgent that you have to catch me...like that?”

“I’m sorry! I was just...In a hurry..Very important! You must come with me right now.”

“I-I’ll just maybe put on some clothes first.”

“Do so. I’ll tell you on the way there. And I’ll, eh, wait outside while you change, I guess.”

“How very noble of you! It better be something really important then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamelessly leaving references to other Shakespeare plays because I’m a nerd.  
> I failed maths but at least I have summer break now and I get to write longer chapters! Side note: No, I can and will not stop making dumb ‘to be’ puns.


	5. A somewhat awkward chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one again because I started and got tired. I need to sleep. I’ll probably write the next one tomorrow.

Horatio stood in front of the door with the guards, waiting and trying his best to think about the urgent matter at hands and not about what he had just witnessed there. Of course the thing at uni was a one off and they agreed to never think or talk about it ever again, hoping for the events of that night to eventually be forgotten, obscured by the considerable amount of alcohol they had both had that night (he was pretty sure they‘d also consumed some other kind of questionable substance, but was too afraid to ask at this point). 

“Why are you all red? What was going on in there? I heard a girl scream.”, Bernardo asked.

“Nothing going on.”

“Did you just-“ He tried very hard to not laugh in Horatio’s face, “Did you walk in on him or something? Who else is in there? Ophelia or someone?”

“Wha- NO. He was all alone. Nothing saucy happening in there. 

“Sure.”

“Maybe it’s not quite the moment for that?  
We’re here to address our...ghost problem after all.”

“Alright mister. And I won’t bother asking why you have a key card to his room.”

Horatio wanted to justify it, explaining that of course one sometimes had to comfort a mentally unstable friend in the middle of the night. And it’s easier to check on someone and make sure they don’t do anything stupid if you’ve got a key to their apartment! 

The guardsman wanted to answer, but was interrupted. 

“Show me what it’s all about then, will you?”  
Hamlet closed the door behind him, fully dressed in hideous black flowery swimming shorts and an old Mcr shirt (he did not seem to be embarrassed about his emo phase and, in fact, seemed to still actively cultivate it). His black hair, still dripping, left small puddles on his shoulders and his glasses were somewhat fogged up from leaving them beside the shower. 

“You do it, Horatio.“

“Of course. Ehm...”, he was not sure how to phrase it and how to say it without sounding like a lunatic. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“What do you mean? Why does it matter, anyway?”

“Well, I don’t know how to tell you, but ghosts are...a thing apparently.”

“Is this some kind of prank, Horatio? You know I’m too tired to deal with that...”

“Unfortunately, it’s not. Eh...we saw...”

“Your father’s ghost!”, one of the guardsmen interjected, obviously getting somewhat tired by Horatio’s avoidance of getting straight into the topic.

“My father’s wh- My dad’s ghost!? Are you serious?”

Horatio looked him deep in the eyes, then remembered that that maybe wasn’t such a good move seeing what had happened five minutes before, and averted his gaze somewhat. “I wish I were kidding. I sincerely do. But all three...no! All four of us saw it...and it has not gone away since. It seems like your dad wants to talk to you about something important.”

Hamlet was conflicted. He was, on one side, in favor of letting his beloved dad rest in peace, but on the other side, he desperately wanted to know what he had to say, what pushed him to keep wandering this mortal plane, and, if he could remember, the circumstances of his death... And then of course, he wasn’t even sure if he believed in ghosts. Of course they’d joined the occult club at uni, but they had never seriously believed in any of the supernatural stuff. Just some rituals and seances for kicks, stupid fun, why not. They had been drunk doing them often.

“So you’re telling me you saw my dead father’s ghost at the hotel gates and he wants to talk to me, just have a little chat?”

“I know how it sounds”, said Horatio. “But you have to believe me. Think about it...why would I tell you crap?”

That convinced him to come with the three of them. Without any talking, they made their way through the hallways, down the grand staircase and through the lobby, then outside along the pool, the bar and the tennis terrain. They took their places at the gate and waited, though not for a very long time as it turned out. 

Suddenly Hamlet started to feel a little chilly, goosebumps forming on his arms. He did not mind at first, it was a welcome change from the hot, sticky, and sweaty time they usually got here, but soon enough the chill got pretty uncomfortable.  
“Is anyone else really cold right now?”

“That’s how you know when he’s about to come.”


	6. He’s a fuckboy

They were standing in front of the lobby at the as the sun went down. The taxi that would bring Laertes to the airport was already parked and waiting while Larry hoisted his luggage into the trunk. 

“It’s a shame you’re going now. It gets awfully boring here sometimes.”, said Ophelia, watching him fiddle with the trunk door that wouldn’t close because the luggage was just a tad too big.

“I’d love to stay, sister. But I should really be back with my lads. Y’know...at home, now that the Senior is gone and they’ve got married.”

“Promise to call on Sundays, will you?”

“If I remember.”, he said in a playful tone.

“I’ll make you, prick.”, she deadpanned.

“Well if you say it like that.” 

They both started giggling. The taxi driver was waiting, playing Candy Crush on his phone while occasionally checking to see if they’d be done soon. 

Suddenly, Laertes’ expression became more serious. 

“One more thing though.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I want you to pay attention to Hamlet, okay? He seems to like you much...”. He had accented the ‘seems’ in a particular way.

“He’s alright, Larry. A bit gloomy maybe, and a bit short, but he’s very good with words. And a great kisser besides...”

“Dunno...But I’d keep away from him if I were you. I know guys like him. They seduce you with their charms, but they all only want to, well...you know.”

“First of all, what’s between us is none of your business. I’m not a little kid anymore, even if you and dad fail to see that sometimes.”

“It’s for your own good, sis. I don’t want anyone hurting you. And I don’t want you to do anything that you’ll regret eventually.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I can think I can decide that for myself.”

He gave her a firm hug, just as Polonius waddled through the lobby and saw his kids in front of the taxi. 

“Still here, son? Well, I suppose it’s time to say goodbye then...”

Ophelia and her brother shot each other a look and both rolled their eyes. They knew what was coming, while the long-suffering taxi driver did not. It was generally known among everyone in the hotel that their father had a tendency to be lengthier than the complete works Victor Hugo, Tolstoy, and the entirety of Wagner’s Ring Cycle recited/sung by a tortoise on Valium. The driver swiped on, ceaselessly manipulating the small, brightly coloured sweets on his display, as Polonius began talking.

He wanted to give his son clear boundaries and good advice, after all. There was to be no misbehaving in France! 

“Don’t do anything stupid, son. No brawls, no drugs, no gambling. Don’t drink too much, don’t smoke. Don’t spend too much on protein shakes, money doesn’t grow on trees after all....”

The taxi driver turned around to see if the old man was finished soon. He was, in fact, not quite finished. 

About five minutes later, the tirade was slowly but surely coming to a close “...no conspiring, no regicide, in fact not any murder whatsoever. No arson, no piracy, and always look left and right before crossing the street, alright?”

The siblings were a bit dumbfounded as to why their father specifically addressed murder among other things, but decided that he was probably just trying and failing to be funny again. The thing about Polonius was that, while he very much did care about his kids, he was not a pleasant person to be around for most people. Some might’ve called him an “annoying wise-ass who is nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is” (that person may or may not have been Hamlet, drunk or maybe not). 

“Dad, I’m concerned. What do you think I get up to these days?”

“You never know, son. I’m just making sure”, he said with a smug grin. “But, most importantly, always be yourself.”, which, as the reader might notice, were big words from someone who had a PhD in bootlicking. 

“Okay...You know what, I think I’m a bit late for my flight. I should probably go right now.”

“C’m here son. Give your dad a hug.”

More hugging ensued. Much goodbyes. Finally, the taxi driver got a chance to actually do his job.

Ophelia just wanted to leave as the taxi drove out of sight, disappearing into the dark rainforest. But alas, her father had more to say. He always had more to say.

“So, what were you talking about earlier?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course. Tell me.”

“He just asked me about Hamlet.”

“Ah. Well, my dear, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.”

“This again?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

This was true. She often went to the beach with Hamlet and Horatio, talking, having a few drinks maybe, occasionally going swimming or just waking along the coast, toes in the water. Once she had hung out with him on her balcony, they had watched the stars and done a lot of talking about life, the universe, and everything. And maybe they had flirted, just once or twice. And maybe they had made out, just once or twice...but nothing had happened beside that, she swore. 

“We just hung out. Nothing more.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t see him so much.”

“He’s fine. What do you have against him?

“You’re way too young and naïve. Trust me. Listen to your father. Guys at that age, well...let’s say they tend not to think with their brains but instead with their-“, he made a hand gesture and slightly raised his eyebrows because he was not sure how young people called their naughty bits nowadays and did not particularly want to use one of those words in front of his daughter. He remembered giving her ‘the talk’ when she was about ten. That had been a thoroughly uncomfortable experience for both of them and he did not want to relive it.

“He’s not just after that. He’s very sweet actually. Sometimes he writes poems for me. He’s a very decent guy.”

“You know what boys are like. And, yes, I do mean all of them. Every. Single. One. First you just ‘hang out’ or ‘netflix and chill’ or whatever you call it these days but before you know they dump you and then you’re pregnant and you don’t know what to do or where to go and then you wish you’d listened to your dad.”

“You all say the same thing. I’m sick and tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do. I’m old enough to decide that for myself! Besides, you can’t just keep me locked up forever like I’m some kind of million-dollar gem that will instantly be stolen. I will recognize who’s an arse and who isn’t and I’m very much able to defend myself. Thank you very much.”

“Don’t come crying if he breaks your heart then.”  
He didn’t mean it. In this situation, he imagined, he would be a bit smug about it and he’d of course tell her that he had been right. But then he’d go full papa bear, or at least that’s what he thought would happen. 

“Fine.”

She stormed off through the lobby. An old man was standing nearby, we must’ve been at least eighty-two and a half. He was wearing glasses and little glasses-sunglasses over them, even though it was already dark outside. And he had an awful yellow bucket hat on his (presumably) bald head too. 

“Ah. You know how it is with daughters. Nothing but trouble. I have three myself.”

“I appreciate your concern. Enjoy your stay, sir.”

\- - - 

Meanwhile, at the other end of the resort grounds, Hamlet had been waiting for the ghost to show up. 

And then just that had happened. 

He was standing face to face with his father now, while the others were hiding behind a bush so as Frankly, he was more than a bit horrified at his appearance. The coffin had not been open at the funeral (and that was perfectly understandable, with the heat and all the insects and whatnot), so he had not actually seen what his dad...or what had been his dad, now looked like. He also would’ve preferred to keep it like that, in sweet obliviousness, because it was not pretty. It was downright horrifying. 

At first, he had almost vomited into a bush upon seeing his old man like that. He felt an awful tightness in his throat, a bit like the time he had discovered by accident that he had a peanut allergy, only this time he was sure an Epipen would not help. 

His father looked pressed and sad and angry all at once. The ghost lifted his non-corporeal arm to pat his son’s shoulder and failed in doing so, of course. 

“Dad...I’m sorry...”

And now the ghost was gesturing, pointing vaguely towards a spot in the distance.

“You want to be alone with me?”

“Without those morons hiding in the hedges.”

“Holy fuck. He spoke...”, Bernardo said from his hiding spot, a bit too loudly.

The ghost vanished and not two seconds after, they saw a faint glow in the distance where he had shown up again, presumably.

“I’m going to talk to him.” 

“Wait!”, said Horatio, a bit too loudly again.

“What? I have to do this. I have to know what he’ll tell me.”

“Don’t get me wrong, but we still don’t know if he’s really who we think. He could be malicious.”

“You suggested I talk to him in the first place.”

“But I don’t- I don’t want to leave you alone. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I can take care of myself. I’m going now.”

Horatio held him back by the shoulder, very much not eager to let him go. He was even more worried about his friend than usually. If something happened to him...

“What can you do against it. You don’t know jackshit about ghosts either. Let me.”

“I-“

“I swear! Let me go Horatio or I will...I’ll punch you if I have to.” Hamlet was not particularly intimidating, being five foot five and not exactly muscular, but Horatio did not want to get in a fight with him, he felt that would hurt him more than any punches his friend could throw. So he took his arm off Hamlet’s shoulder and let him go.

“So, are we going to follow him?”, asked Bernardo.

“Of course we are.”


	7. D(e)ad Jokes

And now they were alone. Just a son and his old man, reuniting. Or something like that... 

“Dad? Talk to me please...”

The ghost’s expression softened. You could tell that he was-just for a moment- allowing himself to indulge in memories. He thought about his son, how he had been and how he was standing in front of him right now. He was older, a bit taller, and certainly a lot more world-weary, disillusioned even. He had not meant to leave so early, he had not meant to leave when his only son had only just become a grown man (who definitely needed someone to advise him; just saying). 

And then he snapped out of it. Or tried to. No more. Now what was done was, quite definitely, done, though without his consent. (Is it murder if the other person consents?) The memories leading up to his death were the following:

He could, of course, recall, the successful lawsuit against Mr. Fortinbras of the neighboring resort, Norway Imperial (That was a stupid name, since they were most definitely not in Norway, as evidenced by the palm trees and the disturbing lack of trolls and the very much relieving lack of Lutefisk. He had never much liked the cold Scandinavian winters and even less, he admitted, the food. Those had been some of the reasons why he had left Denmark as soon as he could and chosen to make his dreams of running a tropical resort a reality. He was arguably miffed that another Scandinavian had had the same idea and not even the decency to pick a different isle, or at the very least a different spot! The audacity...)

It had been a while since then. After the successful lawsuit, they had of course celebrated very elaborately, as you do when your rival has something bad happen to them. 

And, somewhere in the past, he thought, he had taken a nap. A nice nap on a pool floatie, sunglasses on, in his best Hawaii shirt. When he had laid down, he had felt that nothing was unusual, but the evidence that he had never woken up again had proved the contrary quite unambiguously. Or, at least, he hadn’t woken up alive and not dying. Poison does that to you. He was very sure that it had been poison, after all he could not recall his demise being particularly violent (as in: there had not been any man vs. man, no desperate struggle for survival as someone was getting you very intimately acquainted with a knife or a stabby object of other sort. The situation was more of a man vs. realization that his throat is closing up and his chest is burning and he feels like throwing up everywhere and it’s getting worse and worse and oh fuck this is finally it, isn’t it?...)

Next thing he knew he was an outside spectator seeing his own corpse dragged off by a certain someone whom he was fairly sure was his brother. A most foul and unnatural murder! Fratricide (like that of Cain). Betrayed by someone he had trusted (a backstabber like Brutus or Judas)  
This would not pass! He needed revenge. 

Apropos Cain and Judas...He had never been a very religious man, so what came next was a bit of a shocker to him...

He had been a somewhat decent person, true. He had also sinned quite a bit, as the man in the jury had told him. So hell it was, apparently. ‘If you could please align yourself in the queue on the left, sir. Here’s your welcome brochure. It has the wifi password and many infos you might find useful. Enjoy your afterlife!’, a bloke at a registrations desk told him. He was deathly pale, with long white hair and black eyes with glowing red pupils. He wore a little piece of paper that said ‘Hello! My name is ___ Ted___‘ and he looked immensely bored. 

(Ted had been an unpaid intern in hell for 200 years now and had still not got a better job opportunity despite always doing his very worst like he had been advised. He was tired of doing this. That’s why he was so tired and bored and so done all the time. One could say he had one HELL of a job. Haha.) 

While he had been waiting in the assigned queue (that was noticeably longer than the other one), he had passed the time by crafting a revenge plan. When it was his turn, he had found one, though it relied on him coming back as a ghost to tell his son. He made sure to ask his local assistant demon about it. The demon looked a bit perplexed. “Haunting, eh? They can arrange that. But I’m warning you right away, it will take a while to get green light on that. ‘S a lot of paperwork, and they need convincing, ya know?”

So he spent the next month getting his haunting permission. Tediously. A lot of forms to be filled out. (Name? Hamlet Sr.  
Previous occupation? Resort owner and manager

Cause of death? Poisoned (presumably), killed off by brother

Reason of haunting? Revenge on said brother, through son and so on and so forth. I will only give you the short and not the long of it. )

But finally, he got it through. Permission to haunt his old hotel grounds from midnight to sunrise! “You’re lucky, pal”, the assistant told him. “Usually it takes a few years.” 

...

“Dad? Please? I’m bound to hear!”

Enough of the memories. He had the chance to execute his plan now. To take revenge. 

“Hi, bound to hear, I’m dad!”

His son was caught off guard by that one. His dad had thought a small joke would serve to lighten the mood, but alas. So he might as well get to the point now. 

“Son. There you are. I- I’m sorry that I left.”

“Don’t apologize for something like that. It’s not your fault that you died, is it?”

“No. I suppose not. But still...” He shrugged and exhaled, or tried to. Sometimes he forgot that he didn’t have lungs to vigorously exhale as a ghost. A shame, really. Sighing and passive-aggressive breathing are some of the simple pleasures of being alive. 

“W- Why are you here? There must be something you still needed to tell me, right?”

“Yes. And that will come as a bit of a shocker right now, but I need you to kill someone for me.”

“You what? I- I don’t...Who? Why?”

“I really can’t tell you this in a non-traumatizing way. I did not die of a heart attack on that pool floatie.”

Something seemed to click behind his son’s eyes. Had he connected the dots?

“Thing is...I was poisoned. Murdered by your uncle, my brother. He’s a traitor.”

“That little- I knew something about him was off! How could he do that to you dad!?”

“And understandably, I need you to finish this for me...”

His son, who had just been so overflowing with contempt and rage against Claudius, now suddenly looked anxious.  
“But I can’t just- I- I’d love to avenge you, dad...but I can’t just murder someone!”

Murder always brought trouble and unwanted attention, even if done subtly. There had been a (decidedly unsubtle) murder at the resort once, when Hamlet was younger. He remembered every detail, of course, because the incident had been subject to a morbid fascination of his. The CEO of an important company had apparently been stabbed in a meeting room by his colleagues. Twenty three times. Bloody affair. There had been, despite their efforts, much press coverage and the carpet in the meeting room had to be entirely replaced because they could not get the bloodstains out. Eight year-old him had asked to see the body and been very disappointed when the police had refused. 

Hamlet, as much as he had loved his father, did not particularly want to deal with something like that right now. 

“Son, I need you to do this for me. It’s my dying wish. I’m very sorry to put this burden on your shoulders, but...please avenge your old man, will you?”

The sun was starting to rise in the distance and the ghost had said those words with such a sincerity, such a necessity, that it would have broken Hamlet’s heart to deny his father this last request. 

He would come to regret it.


End file.
